


how to make it go away

by fricklefracklefloof



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon compliant sorta, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Projecting, basically i project heavily on jon sims and question the status of my not kinning him, i get headaches/migraines a lot and now jon does too, i really SHOULD have gotten a beta for this one but guess what. i didn't., just hurt, mentions of vomiting, oh and, set over the course of the podcast (s1 s4 and s5), sickfic i think, there is no actual vomiting but i talk about it possibly happening a lot, this fic is a bit of a rollercoaster of ok and then angst and then ok again, what can i say i'm impatient and i post fics the second i finish them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28787079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fricklefracklefloof/pseuds/fricklefracklefloof
Summary: Jonathan Sims and how he navigates migraines and need.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 89





	how to make it go away

There’s probably a line, a point where a normal person should stop when they’re working under excessive amounts of pain, but Jon doesn’t know where that is.

Most of the time he just forces himself through it. There are too many things he would miss out on, too much work for him to fall behind on, for him to stop every time he feels like his head is going to explode. What’s probably a migraine just doesn’t feel like a valid excuse. It’s fine, he tells himself, even as he’s struggling to form single thoughts and words on the paper look like they’re swimming and lightning is splitting behind his eyes every time he moves his head. It’s fine, he tells himself, even when just the slightest light leaking into his office threatens to make him throw up.

No, he can’t just stop now. Jon is nowhere near close to organizing this hellscape of an archive, and due to his headache he’s gotten almost nothing done today. Even thinking about going home and resting makes Jon feel stressed; he knows the statements will linger in his mind and tug at him, begging him to go back. Even if he throws up on his papers, Jon won’t leave.

But he allows himself a moment to rest his head on his desk and close his eyes, just to keep the nausea at bay, just to hide from the lights that are burning into his eyes and causing all of this.

If Jon is thinking more clearly, he’ll probably come to the obvious conclusion that his head is aching because he hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before. Not that the knowledge would make much of a difference.

“Jon?”

Jon removes his head from his hands. It’s not even a particularly fast motion, but his head seems to explode from the sudden action, ripped unfairly from the comforting blackness to face the oppressive light of his office. His vision is blurry and spinning, but he’s pretty sure that’s… Martin in front of him?

“Do you need something?”

“Nothing, I was just… are you alright?” Through a sick haze, Jon can just barely register two steaming cups of tea in Martin’s hands. Of course.

“I’m fine. Could you—go away, please? I’m trying to work.” He can’t handle a conversation right now. Martin isn’t even talking particularly loudly, but his words seem to pierce through Jon’s head and rattle around like sharp rocks.

“I… are you sure? You look sort of pale,” Martin insists.

“Just a headache, is all. I’ll be fine. Now, can you _please_ leave?”

Martin does the opposite of leaving. He strides over to Jon’s desk with confidence he doesn’t think his coworker possessed, still clutching the cups of tea. “Are you sure? I can tell Elias you’re not feeling well, if you need to go lie down.”

He’s _persistent_ today, isn’t he. “I do _not_ need to go l…” Jon tries to glare at Martin in a way that would scare him into complying when his stomach suddenly lurches and his head erupts into a fresh wave of pain.

Martin sets the tea down on the desk by Jon’s papers. “Come on. Just for a little bit. You can lie down on the cot we have down in Document Storage.”

Christ. When Jon doesn’t feel like dying, he’s going to strangle Martin. “Absolutely not. That’s where you’re staying.”

“Well, yes, but I’m not using it now, am I? Besides, _you_ offered it up to me in the first place.”

He makes a good point. And as humiliated as Jon is now, he really doesn’t have the energy to argue with Martin further. 

“Fine. But only for a few minutes. And you’ll say _nothing_ about this afterwards.”

“Fine,” Martin replies, but Jon doesn’t miss the smug smile tugging at his coworker’s face as he staggers to his feet.

Martin hovers around him like some sort of meek puppy as Jon heads for the door, as if he’s expecting Jon to keel over and die right then and there. 

Jon’s normally greeted with the typical low chatter of archival assistants on the rare occasions when he leaves his office, but today it’s as if they’re being extra loud just to piss him off. Jon tries to ignore them. They don’t need to know where he’s going right now.

“You don’t have to escort me,” Jon says as Martin files out the door along with him. He can walk fine, thank you very much. His head just hurts like a _bitch._

“Sorry, I won’t,” Martin apologizes, but Jon can still feel his eyes on him as he makes his little walk of shame down to the room in Document Storage.

Just for a little bit, Jon tells himself. Just until the pain eases just a little bit and he can work properly without feeling like he’s going to vomit all over his desk.

\---

It is not a little bit.

When Jon wakes, there’s light filtering in from the door to the little room where overworked archivists and terrified archival assistants sleep. For a small, blissful moment, Jon thinks it’s the early morning, and he’s about to start a new day of work. 

Then he glimpses the form of Martin shuffling guiltily in the corner, and he remembers.

“Martin,” Jon says groggily, sitting up faster than his body could handle. “I—how long was I out?” The last thing he remembers is cramming his face into a lumpy pillow to stifle the pain in his forehead, forcing his eyes shut and trying not to think about how much work he’s missing out on and how the cot already smells like Martin and—

Martin stiffens. “S-sorry—you can go back to sleep, Jon, I didn’t mean to wake you, I was just…”

“ _Martin._ ” He hadn’t meant to sleep at all. Certainly not long enough to dream about… whatever that was.

“I, um. T-two hours, I think?”

“ _What?”_ That is _far_ too long, long enough for him to record a statement, long enough that people _definitely_ would have noticed. What time is it? Five? He’ll have to make up for this somehow. 

“I’m sorry, I know you said just a little bit, but you looked so peaceful, and I knew you could use the sleep. Lack of sleep causes migraines, did you know that?”

Jon groans. “Yes, Martin, I did.” Now that he thinks about it, though, he does feel a lot… lighter. Like all of the weight pressing down on his head has been lifted, and he can function normally again.

Jon’s grandmother was a firm woman. She’d always scolded him for little things like letting his hair get messy and reading in unconventional places like the dinner table, making scathing comments about how sloppy and irritating he could be.

But whenever Jon got headaches like this one, she’d instruct him to take a nap immediately, no matter how much he’d rather do anything other than sleep. Whether she knew it would cure him or if it was just to get him out of her hair for a while, he’ll never know, but afterwards Jon would always wake to comfort. And his grandmother, firm as she was, would always be there when he woke with a steaming cup of tea and a pat on the shoulder. Then his energy would all come flooding back, and she’d complain that he was already back to normal, and Jon would continue on like he was waking up to a new day.

He feels like a child again, in this moment. Which is silly. Jon still has piles of work to catch up on and he probably looks pathetic in front of Martin now, hair mussed and clothes slept in. 

But Martin must have seen the expression on his face, because he just smiles at Jon and places a warm mug in his hands. “Caffeine helps,” he says softly.

And maybe Jon feels like smiling, because at least he doesn’t feel like death anymore and maybe now he can face the work he’d been hurting over. “Yes. It does.”

\---

Hunger makes Jon’s headaches more frequent than ever. Maybe it’s punishment from the Eye, a cruel joke taking Jon’s worst weakness and turning it on himself. Or maybe it’s just what happens when Jon’s running on nothing. He doesn’t know.

But it’s like the constant throbbing in his head is sharper, aching, more precise as he drags himself through work, through statements, through what could just barely be considered _life._ But lately he aches all over anyways.

It’s hard to remember which day is which, nowadays. Jon’s too exhausted to remember much of anything other than _his last statement his next statement god if he could just have another._

If Martin were around he’d probably tell Jon to take care of himself. But Martin’s not around.

No one’s around. No one who cares, anyways.

Sometimes Jon makes himself sleep, without anyone telling him to. It’s not like it’s hard anymore, when he’s constantly exhausted. Sometimes he finds himself in that same room in Document Storage with its shitty cot and walls that were meant to keep an archival assistant safe, and he drags his frail excuse for a body into bed, just for a little bit.

He sleeps with the false notion that maybe the pain will go away. That he’ll wake and feel light as a child, light like he used to, and someone who loves him will be there ready with a warm cup of tea and a pat on the shoulder. 

But the room is dark when Jon wakes, and he knows there’s no one there, nothing to warm him or make him feel like everything’s okay. He still feels exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all, even though he probably wasted hours just lying there trying to feel like things are okay again.

And his head still hurts.

\---

“Jon, I was thinking of heading to the store, want to come along?”

Jon looks up from the book he’s been agonizing over, and maybe he should just stop. Because the words are swimming in front of him again and making him feel sick, and just moving to look at Martin again now is painful.

“I, ah… maybe later,” Jon replies. “Not sure if I’m feeling up to it.”

“Oh. That’s alright,” Martin says, moving to grab his coat. “Anything in particular you’d like?”

Even if Jon wanted something, he can hardly process anything right now. “No. Thank you, Martin.”

“‘Course. See you later, Jon,” As he’s through the door, Martin makes an adorable little wave over his shoulder that makes Jon’s heart flutter.

“Bye.” _I don’t want him to leave._

But just as he’s about to shut the door behind him, Martin pokes his head through. “Oh, and Jon?”

Christ. He’s irresistible. “Yes?”

“Take care of yourself.”

Jon’s head feels like someone’s slamming it repeatedly with a hammer, but still this manages to make him feel all warm inside. “I will.”

The door closes. Martin’s not one to slam doors, Jon knows it’s not particularly loud, but it’s as if he can feel it reverberating all throughout the safehouse.

He closes his book and drags himself to bed.

\---

There’s no one in the bed next to him when Jon wakes.

It’s funny, how quickly he got used to sleeping with someone. A few months ago, hell, maybe even a few _weeks_ ago, Jon wouldn’t have even considered the thought that anyone would want to sleep in the same vicinity as him.

But it feels cold, as Jon sits up in the bed that is suddenly very huge and lonely and ill-fitting for him. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes as the realization sinks into his chest.

No one’s here. No one’s here, again, and maybe they never will be. For a second, Jon’s not in the safehouse; he’s in the archives, aching and alone, and no one’s coming for him, because they’ve all seen who he was and left before they could get hurt.

They’re always leaving. His grandmother. Georgie. Martin. Jon’s not sure why he’s even surprised. It was bound to happen, eventually; it’s only what he deserves.

And then the door opens and suddenly Martin’s right in front of him.

“Hey, I was… oh. Are you alright?”

No, Jon’s in the safehouse now, and he’s not alone, Martin is _here,_ he was gone for just a moment. “Yes, I’m fine. Just… got a headache is all, and I had to take a nap. I’m good, now, though.” 

“Oh, Jon, you should have told me, I could have helped somehow,” Martin sighs, moving over to sit with Jon by the bed. “Sorry I took so long. Couldn’t find the tea for some reason, for a moment I thought all they had was oolong, then I saw one of those cows on my way home, and, well… you know.”

Jon snickers softly. “It’s fine, Martin. Thank you.”

“Sure, ah… for what?”

“For being here. For coming back.”

And then Martin gives him one of those looks, the pity-filled ones he used to shoot at Jon all the time back at the archives. He takes Jon’s scarred hands in his and squeezes them. “I’ll always be here.”

And Jon feels light again.

**Author's Note:**

> i am going to be completely fucking honest with you there is a copy of half of this fic in my google docs that is the exact same except it's in past tense. i wrote the happy part in past tense, realized it wasn't gonna work, and then changed all of it to present tense and questioned all my life choices, so i apologize if it sounds really awkward and/or grammatically incorrect. it just felt better this way


End file.
